


out of my head

by kitseybarbours



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, Light Sadism, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Manipulation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sexual Fantasy, The Magnus Archives Season 3, beholding kink, compulsion kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24976681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours
Summary: After Jurgen Leitner's murder, Elias sets out to show Jon just how much Jon needs him—and owes him.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 113





	out of my head

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Season 3; full content warnings can be found in the end notes. Read with care, and enjoy!

* * *

‘Another parcel for you, Jon,’ Georgie had called to him, exasperated, when she opened the door to leave for work that morning.

‘Thank you,’ he’d answered guiltily, half-asleep on the sofa with the Admiral purring loudly on his chest. Her only response had been to shut the door behind her with a resounding _clunk_. If Jon is sick of receiving packages full of statements, Georgie is utterly fed-up. She’s never threatened in so many words to kick him out if they keep arriving, but he senses that she gets closer to it every time she opens the door to find a new one on the mat, even less welcome than a dead bird dragged home by a dog.

Jon had sighed, struggling to sit up without dislodging the cat, and fumbled for his glasses. So it was to be a statement day, he thought; but not yet. _Later._

And now it’s later, and he is so very, desperately glad he is alone in the flat.

The parcel does not contain statements to be read, as he’d expected. Instead, it holds a single cassette, labelled with Jon’s name in impossibly symmetrical copperplate handwriting. Deeply wary, Jon pops it into the tape player and presses play.

‘Hello, Jon,’ comes the manicured voice of Elias Bouchard. ‘How are you?’ He pauses, as if taken aback at having asked Jon such a thing. He seems to shake himself out of it, continuing silkily, ‘I expect you’re…tired. That sofa-bed of Miss Barker’s can’t be too good for your back, can it?’

Jon starts, at this. No one knows where he is; he hasn’t been back to the Institute in ages. _Did someone tell him? How did he find out?_ He feels goose-pimples rising all over his skin; he reaches out to stop the tape, already certain that he doesn’t want to hear any more. He _wants_ to stop it. But his fingers will not let him.

It’s at this point that a cold dread begins to settle over him. He looks at his hand, hovering just inches above the pause button but powerless to move any farther, as though met with an invisible wall. This does not bode well.

He drops his hand, helpless, and the tape keeps spooling.

‘And then there’s all the rest of it,’ Elias continues. ‘The _guilt,_ and the shame, and the knowledge that you are a burden and it’s all your own fault. You’re a wanted man, and there is no one alive who will speak up to defend you. Martin, Sasha, Tim: they all think you did it; they all think you are a murderer, and they can’t be sure that you won’t come after them next.

‘And the statements—they just keep coming, Jon, they just keep _finding_ you, don’t they; and still you know so little. You are so very helpless, and so _very_ alone.’ Elias gives a low chuckle, and a shiver runs up Jon’s spine.

‘Unfortunately, such is the nature of your becoming,’ Elias continues, his voice silvery with sympathy. ‘But I’ve been there, Jon, and I know how it feels; so I thought I’d…try to help. Add a little variety to your diet, as it were.’

_‘No,’_ says Jon aloud. He doesn’t know what Elias’ idea of _help_ is, but he can already tell that he’s not going to like it.

‘Mm,’ says Elias pleasantly, as though he’s heard him but, in typical fashion, seen no reason to listen to what he’s said. ‘Now, Jon, I suggest you make yourself comfortable. Are you alone now? Of course you are. Lie down, why don’t you.’

Jon has absolutely no intention of doing so—and yet he finds himself on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The Admiral eyes him warily. Normally he would already have leapt up and colonised Jon’s ribcage, purring like a motorboat: instead he paces in circles a metre or so away from the couch, extending one nervous paw and then retracting it as though he’s touched something hot. He won’t come any closer.

‘Go,’ Jon tells him grimly. ‘I don’t want you to see…whatever this is going to be.’

The orange tabby seems to hear him, and patters off down the corridor to Georgie’s room. Jon is relieved for only a moment. Elias keeps talking, his voice smooth and dangerous.

‘There you are. Very good.’ He clears his throat delicately: Jon can picture him adjusting his tie, straightening the bejewelled, eye-shaped lapel pins he always wears, and he hates him. ‘Now, Jon,’ Elias says, cool and casual, ‘undo your trousers and touch yourself.’

Jon tenses all over. _This? This_ is how Elias wants to help him? No, of course not; the promise of help was only a ruse. Jon’s own comfort, Jon’s well-being, has never been a part of Elias’ equations. What he is doing, here, is demonstrating to what extent Jon is shackled to him. Only Elias knows the truth about Jurgen Leitner’s murder, and he will never tell.

Jon’s fate is in his hands—and evidently that is not enough. Elias has decided he must take his body too.

‘I don’t _want_ to,’ Jon says, as though this will make a difference. It doesn’t. His right hand is already moving, reaching to shove down the waistband of his (Georgie’s) tracksuit pants. He hisses when his fingers wrap around his exposed cock, too certain, too sure. It does not feel like his own touch at all. He is still soft, and wills himself to remain that way—if this is going to happen, at the very least he doesn’t want to feel _complicit—_ but he lets out a curse when Elias keeps speaking: he feels himself hardening at the sound of his voice.

‘Good,’ Elias says, low and soothing. ‘Very good, Jon. So obedient. If only you were like this at work; both of our lives would be so much easier.’ His laugh is dark, self-satisfied. ‘Now, you mustn’t think I’m being unfair,’ he continues. ‘Of course I wouldn’t let you have all the fun.’

Jon squeezes his eyes shut in a futile effort to block him out. But he can hear what comes next: the noise of a belt being unbuckled, the buttons of a fly unfastened. Fabric shifts, and Elias gives a soft exhalation. ‘Ah. There we are. Now, Jon—seeing as I can’t be there with you at the moment—I thought I’d do the next best thing, and tell you exactly what I’d like to do to you. Oh, I know you don’t want me,’ he says lightly, as though to pre-empt the objection screaming inside Jon’s head. ‘But that, my dear boy, matters _very_ little to me.’

Jon groans. His hand has begun to move on his cock of its own accord, strong, firm strokes from root to tip. He hardly ever touches himself, and the last time someone else did was Georgie, nearly a decade ago now. This feels like both of these things and yet neither: he knows this touch is coming from his own body, he can see his hand moving around his cock, but it does not _feel_ like himself; the impetus behind the movement does not come from him.

This frightens him. He realises with a dark, sick feeling that it also turns him on.

He can hear Elias touching himself, the whisper of skin on skin. Jon can see him all too clearly, his legs in their immaculate pinstriped trousers spread wide, his lithe frame arching as he strokes himself indulgently. Elias gives a hum low in his throat, and then says, his voice obscenely intimate, ‘Shall I tell you what I’m thinking of? I think you’d like to know.’

‘No,’ says Jon, weakly.

‘I should like to have you on your knees, Archivist. Trussed and bound at my feet, where you belong. One day, yes, I have no doubt that your powers will surpass even mine—but for now, I am still your superior, and I should like _very_ much to put you in your proper place. Would you like that, Archivist? Would you like to kneel for me?’

‘No,’ Jon whispers through clenched teeth, even as the heat of arousal floods through him. It does not feel intrinsic to him, like something his body knows how to produce: it feels _injected,_ somehow, forced into his veins. He cannot tell if he dislikes this.

‘Once I’d got you on your knees, I would take my time with you,’ Elias tells him. ‘You’d open that pretty mouth for me and take my cock inside. I should so like to see how much it took to make you gag. You’d beg me with those lovely eyes; you’d _hurt,_ you’d want me to stop, I know you would,’ he says, his voice smooth and cruel. ‘But I wouldn’t stop. You’d learn to take it, because I want you to.’

Jon groans. He bites his lower lip, hard, as though to impede the phantom feeling of a cock in his mouth, the painful stretch of lips and jaw. He can practically feel Elias’ cock at the back of his throat, too full, too much, unrelenting.

‘Now, you would be good for me, Archivist,’ Elias continues. ‘You’d swallow me down, wouldn’t you? You’d take me deep so I could fuck your throat? Yes, of course you would. But don’t think that being _good_ would earn you any favours,’ he purrs. ‘Oh, no, Jon. You owe me far too much already. We’ve only just begun.

‘I imagine you’d be begging for me by now, if that pretty mouth weren’t otherwise occupied,’ he muses. ‘You wouldn’t be able to help yourself. You’d be straining against your bonds, desperate to touch yourself: isn’t that right, Jon?’

Jon growls, low in his chest. He hates how clearly he can imagine feeling this way, although he never has before. His hand moves faster on his cock, his hips rolling in tight, frustrated circles.

‘If I were a different man, perhaps I would offer you some relief,’ Elias says. ‘But you’re simply _too_ lovely a plaything, little Archivist, and I haven’t finished toying with you yet. So I would let you rub yourself against my leg, perhaps—enough to bring you that much closer to the edge, just, _just_ close enough.

‘But as soon as you felt yourself about to fall over the precipice, I would stop you,’ he says, his voice almost tender in its cruelty. Jon is shocked to find a moan of frustration torn from his throat. ‘Mustn’t spoil my trousers, after all. Mm,’ he says, apparently luxuriating in the thought of Jon kneeling at his feet, gasping and trembling on the edge of orgasm. ‘And then, I think, I’d stand you up, and bend you over my desk.’

This is too much for Jon. He tries furiously to wrench his hand from his cock, to stop _seeing_ what he sees inside his head: himself, a pitiful spectre stripped nude and bound at the wrists. His legs spread wide, stood like a sacrifice in front of a fully clothed Elias, who pushes him down over the staid, heavy Institute desk.

But his hand stays on his cock as though stuck there, and he cannot force the image from his head. In fact, it is accompanied by a visceral _feeling,_ the imagined sensation of being completely under Elias’ control—and this feeling sends hot fierce sparks through him, almost painful. He makes a sound of stifled rage.

‘You’re so _little,_ Archivist,’ Elias says, his tone balanced on a knife-edge between fondness and mocking. ‘It would be nothing at all to bend you in half, would it? To press your pretty face into my desk while I fucked you, hard, harder than anyone has ever fucked you before. Perhaps you could read me a statement while you were down there. But then I suppose you’d be in tears, by now, wouldn’t you? Quite possible, I’d say. You’re not accustomed to taking cocks like mine. You’re not accustomed to taking cocks at all. It would fairly split you open, wouldn’t it? And it would hurt.’ He laughs again, a horribly delighted sound: ‘Oh, yes, I daresay it would hurt.’

Jon cries out. Of its own accord, his other hand has found its way between his legs, and his fingers inside himself. He has _never_ touched himself like this before, has never felt even the slightest inclination—and yet he is working one finger, two, inside himself without lubrication. It hurts— _God,_ it hurts, a dry, burning hurt—but he cannot stop. He does not want to stop—or _Elias_ doesn’t want him to.

His probing fingers find his prostate and press fiercely into it. His whole body jerks and arches, his muscles seizing around the intrusion even as a white-hot pleasure courses through him. His cock is dripping fluid, his hand moves too quickly. ‘No, no, no,’ Jon begs the empty air; and yet, inside his head, in a voice too much like Elias’: _Yes, yes, yes._

‘How lovely you look like this,’ Elias croons. ‘How I should _love_ to have you completely at my mercy.’ He laughs, a wondering sound: ‘But then I already do, don’t I, Jon? I hold all the cards. You _need_ me. It is only I who can make you what you were always meant to be. And you see, my Archivist—I don’t ask so much in return.’

Jon can hardly hear him by now. He is moaning, whining, hot with shame all over as his own desperate pleas meet his ears. He writhes into his own touch, praying that this will soon be over, that Elias will take pity on him and grant him relief, knowing all the while that this will only end when Elias has taken all he wants from him and more.

‘I think I ought to come inside you,’ Elias says thoughtfully. ‘And then, perhaps, all over your back. What a lovely canvas you’d make, hm, Jon? Oh, I’d make a beautiful mess of you. Leave no doubt as to whom you belonged to. Because you’re mine, aren’t you, little Archivist? You are mine. You belong to me.’

The words appear on his tongue as though placed there. ‘Yours,’ Jon whispers hoarsely, cursing Elias with what remains of his faculties. ‘Yours. I’m yours. I belong to you.’

‘Good,’ Elias murmurs, so close it sounds like he’s in the room. ‘I knew you could be good for me. It just took a little… _convincing.’_ He laughs. ‘But have you been good enough to come, do you think, Jon?’

_‘Yes,’_ Jon nearly shouts. ‘Yes. Please. _Please_.’

‘I do love to hear you beg.’

_‘Let me come,’_ Jon moans, despondent.

‘Oh. Aren’t you good.’ Elias exhales then, his breath hitching, and Jon listens intently, relieved beyond words to realise that he is coming. He hates that he can picture him—eyes closed behind his gold-rimmed pince-nez, aristocratic face perfectly composed, not a silver hair out of place even as his hips stutter and his cock pulses in his hand. He hates even more the pull of desire this image elicits from deep in his stomach.

‘I suppose,’ Elias says carelessly, his breaths coming slightly shallower than before, ‘you may come now.’

Jon’s orgasm hits him like a dam bursting. His body arches painfully off the couch, his vision whiting out as it thunders through him. He becomes aware that he is screaming only when his throat grows hoarse. _‘Elias,’_ he says, partway between a prayer and a curse. ‘Oh, Christ— _Elias—’_

‘Mm,’ Elias hums approvingly, after a long, ringing moment, and Jon shudders at the feeling of a phantom hand ghosting over his head. ‘Oh, you _do_ look lovely when you’ve been taken apart. Now—that wasn’t so terrible, was it, my Archivist? Surely you enjoyed yourself even a little?’ His voice maintains its almost playful lightness, but something darkens just beneath. ‘Surely you wouldn’t mind doing this again sometime,’ Elias says. ‘You do owe me a long list of favours, after all.’

Jon is so wrung-out he can hardly process Elias’ words. When they register at last, he feels again a sinking in the pit of his stomach; but, too, a treacherous spark of renewed desire. _No, no, no,_ he thinks, _not again, never again, I can’t take this again, please._

But: ‘Yes,’ he says aloud, meek and weary. ‘Yes, Elias. I’ll do anything you like.’

‘Oh, Jon,’ says Elias, his voice rich with delight. ‘I know you will.’

* * *

At last—at long last—the tape recorder shuts itself off. The soft _click_ and the ceasing of the tape’s spooling bring Jon back into reality. He stares down at himself in dismay: he has come all over himself, his hand, his shirt, Georgie’s tracksuit pants. His pants were shoved clumsily, sluttishly, to one side in his haste to touch himself.

Shame washes over him. He has felt similarly after sex before, but those were consensual encounters: this is worse by several orders of magnitude. He is less appalled by the way in which Elias had abused his powers, the thread of Beholding that connects the two of them—such misuse of his gifts is par for the course. What sickens him is that he, Jon, had enjoyed it, even if only for a brief, consuming moment.

He closes his eyes. Scenes from their encounter flood his mind at once. He is torn between wanting to forget them—write them over like a cassette tape being reused—and wanting to scrutinise them minutely, watch them in slow motion, relive them in perpetuity.

_I can’t. I can’t let him do this to me, too._

Numbly he realises he has no idea how long this little ordeal has lasted. Georgie could be on her way home right now, moments away from finding him here like this, debauched and miserable.

With great effort Jon heaves himself to standing and staggers to the bathroom to clean himself up. His face in the mirror is haggard, his cheeks obscenely flushed. Instinctively he looks away, hating what he sees—but a flash of colour catches his gaze.

Jon looks himself full in the eyes. All his life, they have been a deep coffee-brown. But just now, for a delirious second, he could have sworn they turned a bright, bitter green, the same green that winks at him from the jewelled pins on Elias’ collar.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Content notes:
> 
> \- No one touches Jon without his consent, but he is Compelled by Elias (through a tape recording) to touch himself.  
>   
> \- Elias describes his sexual fantasies about Jon in explicit detail, fully aware that Jon would not consent to these scenarios and is not consenting to hearing them.  
>   
> \- Jon is both kept from orgasming and then forced to orgasm against his will.  
>   
> \- He thinks of himself as ‘complicit’ in what Elias is doing to him, especially when he begins to enjoy it.
> 
> Title from [Out of My Head](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qcu3JC7u9es) by Mobile. In case you're interested, [this gorgeous art](https://twitter.com/sophi_e_bee/status/1275194662127575042) by [sophie_e_bee](https://twitter.com/sophi_e_bee) is my headcanon Elias for this fic! (Just pretend the lapel pins are green.)
> 
> I'm [saintmontague](https://twitter.com/saintmontague) on Twitter.


End file.
